Seaglass Serpents
by GoWithTheFlo20
Summary: Nymphaea is tired and alone after the war that cost her nearly everything. Trying to recover what little sanity she had, Nym sets out to sail west, a place her mother once vanished to, in search of a father she only knows the last name of. With nothing but her wand, a bag, and a little bucket as company, she'll have to use her wits to survive Westeros. Fem!Harry. Greyjoy!Harry.
1. Chapter 1

**Prologue**

The Black lake was not beautiful, Nymphaea Greyjoy, better known as Nym, thought. It reminded her of a big, black, ravenous dog. Large, and fat, rolling up on shore with clashing teeth and shaggy jaws. Sometimes it foamed, as if rabid, as the waves lapped and lipped on pebble and sand. Still, on nights like this, the sky cast to sullied gloom with pinpricks of light, the moon swollen and round like the belly of an albino spider, the tide still and cold, it felt like _home. _

Or as close to home as Nym could get. The water wasn't salty enough. The tide not strong enough. And there were never enough currents. It wasn't the sea, a place Nym loved, but here, next to the towering castle of Hogwarts, standing proud and blackened on the horizon, it was as close as Nym could get. Ever since her first year, bobbing along on those old rowing boats up to the castle, Nym had been entranced, hooked and netted, by the Great Lake. She visited it often, near daily, through the years.

So, on nights such as these, when the memories of the war cut at her like razorfish buried in gritty sand, Nym took to the shore, stripped down to nothing but her camisole and undies, plodded along the rickety, damp pier and dived. She'd swim until all thought left her, washed clean, until her muscles ached and cramped, until all she could taste was brine and salt, and her skin froze blue and prickled.

When Nym made it to the very middle, where land was nothing but a sliver, a squint, a hazy mist hinting at illusion that you had to strain your eyes to see, she treaded water. _Lily. James. Sirius. Remus. Tonks. Dobby. Hedwig. Fred. Snape. _Like a watery prayer, their names spilled from her lips and that hungry dog of a lake took it into it's deep, dark embrace. Sometimes, she pictured them, their faces, hair flooding around them as they, wrapped in shrouds of seaweed and coral, bejewelled in pearls, were dragged down deep into the rippling water. They didn't scream in her imagination. They didn't cry. They didn't shout. They smiled as they sank. At peace. Silent. Down there. In the deep. Sometimes, Nym wished she could join them, at the bottom, where rock sloped and coves hid, and shadows devoured all.

Nym didn't know why she did it. She didn't know when she began to exactly. She only knew it felt right. Giving their names over to the water, having the waves whisper little funeral hymns, the soft sands calling them home, letting the rhythm of the black water set her soul and grief free. All of it felt right. She told the water all, shed her own saltwater into its body, sometimes she talked, other times she sobbed, sometimes she told a story, and rarely she was simply silent. It didn't matter. It felt _right. _Out here, alone, just her and the black water. And she always came back with something. A pearl stuck in her top. A pretty iridescent shell knotted in her hair. Starfish clinging to thigh. Small gifts, tokens, given for her stories, her names, her tears.

Sometimes, when Nym was feeling particularly low, particularly lost, particularly particular, the Giant Squid would come. It was a big beast, too big to see, more Kraken than squid, but it came. She knew it did. She could feel it, veiled in the depths, slinking, lurking. It would poke, prod, gentle, comforting, at her back and legs with its huge tentacles, and Nym would sing for it. She would sing until her skin wrinkled and her lips turned blue, voice hoarse and dry, until there was nothing left to sing about, until words blurred to noise, ancient and old, sweeping. The water asked for nothing, demanded nothing, wanted nothing from her, and so, she gave it everything she had. However, Nymphaea was not singing that night. No. She was confessing.

"I never knew who my father was. No one ever speaks of him. Not a word. It's as if his name is cursed. Remus told me once, when the day was close to the full moon and his restraint wasn't all there, that my mother was sent on a mission by the Order, right as she joined after Hogwarts, to gain support. She was meant to go to America, but her ship got wrecked and she went missing. They found her three years later, washed up on some beach… Heavily pregnant. Apparently, it was a miracle either me or my mother survived."

The calming waves lapped at her as she floated on her back, short red hair fanning out around her, turned crimson, like blood, by the water. The moon was nothing but a shaving of fingernail in the inky sky.

"Remus said she was delirious in beginning. She was ranting and raving about fleets and ships, yellow Krakens on black fields, usurpers and war. She wanted to sail back west, but they wouldn't let her. She even stole a ship but got caught pulling out of the harbour. She was seven months pregnant at the time."

Nym's eyes slid shut as she bobbed along, limbs outstretched, skin cool and chilled and tight. Perhaps, if someone was to look out onto the Black Lake, they would think she was nothing but a corpse, still, mute, frigid.

"Of course, by the time they wrangled her back, she was nearly nine months gone and the prophecy had been given. She was put into hiding soon after. James, her closest friend, accompanying her. Voldemort thought, well, they had gone into hiding _together_, and he came to the same conclusion everyone else did. They thought Lily naming me Greyjoy was just a ploy to get Tom to back off."

The hushed wind carried her voice, bouncing it off ripples and swells and surges of the biting water.

"She never got to sail west again."

That was the most tragic thing of all, Nym thought. With recalled strength, Nym dipped and began to lazily lap towards the shore. Dawn would soon be breaking.

"But I am. I'm leaving in the morning. I bought a ticket for a ship heading west. I can't-…"

_I can't stay here anymore. _But the words lodged in her throat, hot like a lit lump of coal, burning. She had given her all. She really had. She had given, and bled, and died, and it had not been enough. It would never be enough. Even now, they were asking more of her. Expecting her to bow, and bend, and break for them, and yet, she never got anything in return. No more. There was nothing left in her to give. She was empty, hollow, vacant. Instead, Nym laughed. Yet, it was a dead noise, all driftwood and brittle seaglass.

"Your lake is yours alone once more, dear friend. Enjoy it for me."

Nym felt an undulation by her feet, a dart of a thick shadow, just as she was getting close enough to shore to stand. She stood, water resting at waist, faced back out to the waters, and watched as it glistened under the pale, dead light of the cracked moon. She couldn't see the kraken, but she knew it was there. Something fast, golden, launched out of the water, hitting her in the stomach. Nym stumbled back, grappling to stay standing, as something slithered and wrapped around her stomach. Glancing down, readying to fight, Nym stalled.

It was only a little thing, this squid. Tiny compared to the beast that lurked in the water. Still, there was something… Off about it. It's tentacles were too strong and long, barbed with tipped razors. It's head was long, but serrated, crowned with barbed thorns and bone white spines, and it's eyes glowed a terrible, terrible sort of red. There was something magical about it, just as there was something magical about the big one out in the depths. Nym tried to wrestle the little thing off her, put him back in the black waters where he belonged, so he could grow as big as his parent, but as soon as she pried one arm off, another latched on. Suddenly, she felt something large, slippery, push at her legs, urging her to shore.

"You… You want me to take him?"

Silence fell, but Nym understood. Her last gift.

"I'll take good care of him."

She swore as she conjured a bucket, dipping down to fill it with the dank waters. Once full, she pressed it just underneath the baby squid, almost laughing as it happily disengaged itself from her and plopped into the bucket, merrily sinking to the bottom with a few popping bubbles, tentacles extended across the corners, a king of his own little lake. For the last time, Nymphaea looked out across the Black Lake and thought of all those before her, those in shrouds and resting in the dusk of these placid waters.

"And take good care of them for me."

By the time dawn broke, the lake was empty. Nym was gone, on a ship, heading west, nothing but her wand, a bag and a little bucket by her side.

* * *

**A.N: **I don't even know what this is, where it came from, or where it's going (If it goes anywhere XD), but... here it is! This idea has been bugging me forever, and wouldn't stop pestering me until I wrote it up.

I do know it will have a solid Greyjoy focus. I'm talking Victarion, Balon, Asha, Theon, Euron, all of 'em lol. The Greyjoys have always been one of my favourite houses, and they never seem to get much love in the fandom, so here I am, waving their banner.

If you enjoyed this, drop a review and let me know, so I know whether to continue this madness or not.


	2. Chapter 2

**Prologue II: Touch of Madness**

"What do you mean we're _stuck_ in port?"

Nymphaea snarled to the blushing cabin boy. He was a spindly fellow, long limbed and reedy, like bulrushes, clean shaven but with a hint of acne lining the swoop of his cheek. Coupled with his tight tanned skin, It reminded Nym of a old nautical map, little red dots leading to the treasure trove of his mouth and looping round his jaw to the coastline of his sideburn. His voice still held that pubescent wobble to it, all straining whisper that ruptured against high notes. On the arch of his dull blonde brows, Nym could see the hint of perspiration, a slight wet sheen that glistened in the low light of the settling dusk. He was nervous of her. _Good._

"Exactly as I said the last three times, miss. There's a storm on the horizon. A big one. All ships have been recalled to the closest ports to set anchor and wait it out. Only a madman would try and sail the Atlantic ocean with a hurricane on his tail."

Nym's jaw rolled, her fingers tightening around the lidded bucket she had clutched to her chest. At her feet sat a battered suitcase, leather corners worn to jagged threads. At the moment, those shredded threads were stronger than her waning patience. As if he could sense her increasing anger and frustration, Nym could feel the water inside her bucket slosh up the side, lapping at the buckets lid, as the young kraken bounced off the edge. Placing her palm on top of the lid, unsure whether he truly understood her or not, felt her rising ire or was just tired of being confined, Nym tried to calm the little raging beast in a bucket. Sargon stilled.

Nym had set sail on the cruise ship just three weeks past. She had been met with an average, if a bit sparse, cabin, a phone for room service, and a little plastic pass to allow her onto the top deck. For the money she had shelled out for her ticket, she should have gotten the captains cabin, but, seen as she was mostly left to her own devices, Nym couldn't complain too much. She had spent a majority of the three weeks in her own room, allowing her baby kraken to swim freely in the bulky bathtub she had paid extra for, as she ordered lobster, cod, crab and venison, a particular favourite of the baby kraken's, by the plateful.

He was a hungry little thing, quickly growing, proud too, as he picked and chose what he ate or spat back out onto the cheap bathroom linoleum with a slight haughty grace of dismissal. He liked his food alive, he enjoyed it when his prey fought back, but that was hard to come by on a sailing ship, so Nym had resorted to tying his food onto a string and trying to drag it through the water to imitate a hunt. The baby kraken had given chase with a zeal that bordered fanaticism, but Nymphaea had laughed all the same. Feeding time was quickly becoming the highlight of her day, as sad as that may sound. It was also the most she had laughed in years.

It had gone well until… Well, one time she had pulled too hard, the piece of venison had come slopping out, and Sargon, still caught in the rush of the hunt, had came tumbling out of the tub, flopping and scuttling after the meat before he snatched it and dived into the toilet bowl of all bloody things. It had taken her six fucking hours to coax the little bastard out of the toilet, his new den, by leaving a trail of sardines leading back to the tub, and in the end, to stop him from returning, for she really did have to piss at some point and she was quickly getting tired of opening the lid to see Sargon's eyes staring back, she had to spell the fucking toilet shut.

Thankfully, Nymphaea had soon figured out what the problem was. The toilet was _dark. _Light, especially too much of it for too long, made him thrash and curl up tightly, slinking to the far corner of the tub, darting for the toilet once he figured out he could hide there, and apparently cross short distances of land, where it was darkest. A quick covering of the porthole windows with dense curtains and a cast of a gloom hex on the bathroom put a swift stop to his loo adventures, and Nym could once again piss with the peace of mind her arse wasn't about to get slapped with a barbed tentacle. It was also the reason for the introduction of the lid to his bucket.

Sargon loved to play, Nym had learnt that very quickly too. After one such meal of strings, hunts and games, subsequently demolishing three king crabs and a plate of pork sausages, the little kraken had been zipping around his bathtub, batting and waving little bits of red shell with his tentacles, play fighting Nym thought. It was when the largest piece of crab shell, rounded and jagged, got caught upon his little elongated dappled gold head, as if he was sporting a rubied crown, that Nym had finally named him. Sargon. _True King_.

And one day he would be. One day, he would grow to be as big as a mountain. One day, he would be the stuff of legends. One day, he would make the ocean his empire. Kraken's were no pets, and Nym's quick fondness of the little beast did not blind her to this. Krakens were a force of nature, as wild as the sea itself, salt and storm personified in skin, untameable and unbending. They took without remorse, fed without regret, and pillaged deep and true. One day, that would be Sargon too. It was what Sargon was. _A kraken. _To think otherwise would be imprudent, and Nym was no fool. However, until that day came, when he was big enough to look after himself and carve out his own little kingdom in the sea, Nymphaea would look after him, play his games and enjoy their time together. Of course, that was if she could get out of the bloody UK waters in the first place.

It was at the end of their third week when the ship she had been on was forced to dock in Bantry Bay, on the west coast of Ireland, and their journey west had been diverged. According to all reports, a storm was rolling in, heady and strong, the kind of which that had people troubled, grousing, and anxious. Normally, Nym would enjoy such news immensely. She loved a raging storm.

She adored it when the air got weighty and oppressive, strain bound, seconds from cracking. It was the same feeling she got right before a good fight, when there was a tone of unsurety, of victory or defeat, but come what may, flip of a coin, fists and magic would fly and she could let _loose. _She worshipped the shade of the heavens in a storm, greys mottled with blacks and blues, like the sky had been bruised and crushed to submission. And the shower, pellets of rain falling so hard they stung her skin and blurred her vision, lashes and kisses mixed with that smell of salt, love and hate united into one glorious moment where the sky met sea and all felt their wrath and their passion.

Nevertheless, this particular storm was interrupting her. All travel, be it ship or plane, had been cancelled, diverted or docked for the unforeseeable future until the storm passed. And it was this 'unforeseeable' notion, the lack of a given time-frame, that pissed Nym right off. As much as she loved storms, Nym loved getting what she wanted more. Perhaps she was a little like Sargon that way.

"And how long will we have to wait before we set sail again?"

The cabin boy shuffled on his feet.

"Don't rightly know miss, but the office says at least a week for the storm to pass."

Anger swept over her then, as murky as the condensing skies above them. Nymphaea had always had trouble controlling her anger, that flare of boiling fury that always seemed half-lit in her chest, a fuse sparking down to detonation. She was a tall girl, bordering on six foot, with a rather deceivingly thin but muscular frame. Years of 'playing' Nym hunting with Dudley, the beatings and abuse at the hands of Vernon and Petunia, being seeker for Gryffindors quidditch team, on the run from Voldemort and duelling deatheaters had not only washed her body with scars, but whittled most soft fat and gentleness from her. A hard life bred hard men, Remus had once told her, and Nymphaea was no exception. It had also hewn her in iron, callous, cruel, and impenitent in the wrong light. She was quick to burst. Always the first to throw a punch or spell. Downright vicious with her words when she wanted to be, as cutting with her tongue more so than any slicing hex.

Nonetheless, that was also her saving grace. Nym was self-aware enough to acknowledge her faults. She was prideful, ever so, sliding into an air of arrogance sometimes. She was stubborn, unrelenting, stony when pushed. She didn't forgive often, she backed down rarely, and she never forgot a slight. Still, she knew when and where her anger had a place. Here was not it. Now that she had been gone for three weeks, people were likely looking for her, possibly tracking her. She couldn't stay in one spot too long, not if she didn't want to be found, and the west coast of Ireland was too close to Scotland to offer any comfort.

Nymphaea needed to head west further still. She didn't know why, or how, or where exactly, but she knew she needed to keep going. Just like one could feel a storm coming in, that heavy sort of weight hanging in breath, Nym knew there was something in the west. Perhaps it was the place her mother had disappeared to, if such a place ever existed and her mother hadn't completely lost her bloody mind. Perhaps it was just the pull to freedom calling her, out of reach of manipulation and persecution of the wizarding world, finally free to do as _she _wished, her life her own to bleed and to fuck or fight for. Or maybe her father was still there, a chance at all she ever wanted, a family. Or, maybe, just maybe, there was nothing. No new land. No freedom. No family. Nothing. Yet, this was her journey, her discovery, her road to take. And like hell would she let a fucking storm warning stop her from reaching her goal.

"We are offering refunds, if you just-"

"Fuck your refunds and fuck your ship!"

Nymphaea sneered as she untangled one arm from around the bucket, hand quivering with repressed anger as she stretched down and plucked up her suitcase, storming away with a thudding, weighty step. The last thing she needed right now was to be arrested for assaulting a crew member. The senseless cabin boy shouted at her back.

"The exit to the port is the other way, miss! Miss! Miss?"

Nym ignored him, the shadows of dusk eventually swallowing her form as she began to head down the labyrinth of winding docks. In twilight, the choppy seas around them were painted a dull purple and pink, tinged grey by the heavy clouds arising in the sky. The wharfs were well cared for, broad, with little crates meant for storage dotted around the corners, a few fishermen's nets flung over post and rail. Every few feet there was a lamppost, the old Victorian kind, some already turning on for the oncoming night. The smell of fish, being rolled off ship in writhing mass, hung sour and putrid in the air, mingling with the odour of rust and oil. Coming to a corner, Nym dashed her suitcase at her feet and plonked down on the rickety storage crate, taking a moment to gather her thoughts and calm her anger. Popping the lid of the bucket, Nym gazed down at the gleaming red eye staring back.

"I know, I know. Great runaway, aren't I? Can't even escape the bloody UK. Don't look at me like that. I'd like to see you do better."

The wind was picking up now, with a nip to its caress, and Nym wasn't sure whether it was salt spray from the pitching ocean that was beginning to mist her face, or the beginning onslaught of the emerging storm rolling in from the sea. Reaching into her pocket, Nym pulled out the already open, half empty packet of dried cuttlefish. Idly, she pulled one free from its plastic prison, broke a bit of brittle flesh off and dropped the morsel into the bucket with a satisfying plop.

"What am I going to do now, Sargon?"

Breaking off another chunk, Nym fingered the ridged skin, mummified by smoke. Perhaps if she headed into town, found a travel company, maybe she could glean when the travel restrictions would be lifted. Surely, they would know? After that, if it really would take a week, or longer, she could bounce around Ireland, jumping from county to county to try and shake any possible tagalongs tracking her trail. Caught up in the plans forming and breaking in her thoughts, much like the waves on the stilts of the docks, Nym missed Sargon's tentacle leaping out of the water. One of his thorns caught her thumb as it snatched the piece of cuttlefish, slicing through the soft flesh like butter. Nym hissed.

"Ow, you little shit! Careful! You can't just take-"

_You can't just take what you want_. But that was wrong, wasn't it? Sargon could take what he wanted, when he wanted, however he fucking wanted to. He was a kraken, king of the seas, the beast of salt and rock. Kraken's did not ask for permission or forgiveness. They took and reaped what they deemed theirs. Glancing around her with a slanted jade eye, Nym took note of the stark port, the lack of light, empty of fishermen and guards and workers as they all rambled back to land and the illusion of shelter. Running her tongue over her teeth, Nymphaea looked back down to Sargon.

"We couldn't…"

The bit of cuttlefish was already gone, devoured, and a few bubbles broke the still surface of the bucket. The small pop of them as they burst sounded like a taunt. Nym grinned as Sargon's cerise eye twinkled at her. Sliding the lid back onto the bucket, Nym stood and collected her suitcase, wondering further down the wharf and deeper into the sea, eyeing up the ships around her.

Cargo ships would be missed, too big and heavy, their stolen payload would be tracked. The Tanker off in the distance, rigged with oil, was too noticeable and recognizable, the company logo for petroleum an instant giveaway. The few private yachts lining the marina might work, if she could somehow find the owners and nab the keys, but then she would also have to find fuel to make sure she made the journey across the Atlantic. There were one or two sail boats, small, nothing but skitters and sloops, but the storm would wreck them on shore as soon as it really descended.

Coming to the end of the far pier, right at the front, almost hidden in an alcove, Nymphaea spotted it. The ship was something out of an old sixteenth century book, ripped right from the pages of naval journals. It was a brute of a ship. Three masted, three decked, square rigged, wrought from blackened wood, it glimmered in the dying light. Gunports, thirty-six on one side, Nym counted, lined her fat belly. Another thirty-six, Nym new, would be facing her other, with the last two on her aft. Her keel was sleek and keen, perfect for cutting through rough waters. Her bowsprit sprung forth proudly, almost like a lance, with a privy gallery jutting out of her long nose. The rat lines, or shrouds, scuttled up to the top masts, tying off into the three crows nests. Her main sails were rolled in, but her jib sail was out, and Nym could tell by the slight yellowing of her wings the flax was still strong.

_A Man O' War. _

In her prime, this ship would have been the nightmare of the sea, the predator of privateers and pirates alike. Manned by a crew of between fifty and a hundred, most would have surrendered when spotting it on the horizon. Like storms, like the sea, Nym had always loved ships, a love that had inevitably been birthed from her adoration of the sea. As a young, skinny, beaten kid, with skimmed knees and bruises in the shapes of hand prints, she used to steal books from the school library. She'd hoard them in her cupboard, under her rickety cot, her little cashe of paper and picture, and read them when she was locked in. Barques, brigantines, caravels, clippers, carracks, to frigates and galleons, she read about them all.

Ships, back when she was nothing but a nipper, symbolised something a young trodden Nymphaea had always wanted._ Freedom_. She used to dream about them, sailing away from Vernon's loud voice and meaty hands, from Petunia's bird like nose and tight fingers, from her dingy cupboard and soiled food, from Dudley's sick games. If she had a ship, in Nym's innocent mind, she could have just sailed away, off into the blue, never to be seen again. It was why she had adored quidditch so much. The wind in her hair, the rush of a drop, the rock of wood beneath her, reminded Nym of the naive dreams she used to have of sailing away, of escaping, of finally taking her life into her own hands. Hermione had scolded and berated Nymphaea's fascination with Durmstrang's ship, but not many people understood the call of the sea.

It was something primal. Intrinsic. Inexplainable. Like a kraken, it wrapped you in barbs and dragged you under, never to breathe air again. Nymphaea's first love had been the sea. Of course, Tom Riddle had rose and all dreams of ships, seas and freedom had flooded away, leaving Nymphaea to the cold barren truth of her death, her lonely destiny. However, against the odds, she had survived, and, ironically, here she was again, bright eyed and dreaming of sailing away, rolling full circle. Only this time, Nym had the guts, will and stubbornness to do so. Staring at the ship before her, Nym fell in love all over again.

"Magnificent ship, is she no'?"

Piped up a voice from over her shoulder. It was crinkled, old, worn. Nodding, Nym turned to face the newcomer, Sargon's bucket tightly clasped under her arm.

"Yours, I presume?"

The owner of the raspy voice was an old man, his face weathered with wind chaffed skin, a sooty pipe perched between his tight lined mouth. His beard was wiry, as grey as the cliffs of county Cork, blending into his equally dull and silver locks falling from his thin, balding head. He puffed on his pipe, the smell of damp tobacco and algae billowing on the cloud of opulent smoke.

"Aye, been in the family for as long as the family can remember. It's going to be beached soon and transported to the local maritime museum after the storm to stand exhibit."

Nym glanced back to the exquisiteness of the ship, a tinge of sadness, musky with rage, sinking her gut like a cannonball. To put such a ship, such a beauty, in a museum, trapped by brick and land, gathering dust, so far from the water, its home, was a sin. It belonged on the sea, to the ocean, chasing waves, cutting wind and gathering barnacles. In a way, Nym felt like that ship. Cut off. Alone. Beached.

"What's her name?"

A clap of rolling thunder punctuated Nym's question. The storm was coming. Time was not on her side. She needed to at least get her and a ship out of the harbour before the winds and rain hit.

"That ship there be called The Leviathan."

Nymphaea scanned the ship, and iron solidified in her blood. No more giving. No more being beached or trapped. No more. Not for her. Not for Sargon. Not for this ship. The wind lashed at her face.

"It's perfect."

The old man smiled and gave one last puff of his pipe before he turned his back on her, looking down the wharf at a noise of a birds caw, distracted. That was the worst thing he could have done. Nym's hand settled on her wand strapped to her wrist. He never saw the bright red light, likely didn't feel it slap into his back, as the stunner hit him soundly. He folded to the floor with a great creak and a thud. The spell would wear off in half hour, plenty of time for him to make it back onto land and find shelter before the storm washed the docks, and plenty of time for Nym to get the hell out of there.

Sliding her wand home into her wrist strap, Nym dashed for the Galleon. With a well-aimed throw of her suitcase, hearing it clunk on the planks of the top deck of the ship, Nym went about unknotting the thick ropes holding the ship to the dock. With the last rope untied from post, Nym settled her bucket, and Sargon, tight in one arm, as she used the other to wrap into the rope, scaling up the side of the ship. Heaving over the railing of the quarter deck with a hearty groan, Nymphaea slid onto polished wood with a thump. She wasted no time. Settling Sargon's bucket near the helm, where her feet would stand, adding a sticking charm for extra stability, Nym gave the lid a loving pat.

"We're on our way, but it's going to be rocky. First time driver and all that. Hold on tight in there."

Darting for the small set of stairs to the lower deck, jumping three at a time, Nym made it to the anchor wheel. Bracing herself against one of the jutting spokes, she began to push, growling as the wheel screeched but sluggishly twisted, lowering the wheel and raising the anchor. Next, Nym made her way around the rigging, tugging on rope and brass clasp, lowering the sails mast by mast. Aligning the sails to the wind proved difficult, she was only one person attempting to sail a fifty-man ship, but she had something most didn't. _Magic_. With a few well-placed spells, the sails billowed out, bulging like the throat of a singing toad. Her bout of husky laughter rang over the sound of the waves crashing against the hull.

With the anchor up, the sails out and the wind caught, Nym sprinted for the helm before they began to drift into rock or dock. Squaring her shoulders, feet apart, Nym ran an almost reverent hand over the wheel, feeling brass and wood skim her palm. The boat lurched forward, carving through the murky waters, pulling away. When she was far enough out from the hazardous docks, she flickered her gaze to the embedded compass on the helms face, her fingers tightened around the struts, two and six, as she spun the helm. The little flickering arrow arrived at the ornate W with a little tremble. Nym held the course true.

_This was what madness felt like._ The sound of the roaring ocean booming in her ears, the clap of thunder matching the frantic pound of her heart trying to escape her ribcage, the sudden drop and rise of her stomach as the galleon dipped and climbed, the laughter, hot and bright, burning like a star, ringing like a church bell, shattering her chest. So many things could go wrong. She was likely going to beach the poor ship on some shore a few miles out, if she didn't get wrecked out in the open ocean and drown lost at sea. The storm could capsize her, rip the ship asunder, strike her off the face of the earth. This was insanity. Absolute Absurdity. A fools folly.

Yet, Nymphaea couldn't bring herself to care. Not a lick. In that moment, she had never felt so alive, so full, so… _real. _Standing there, Sargon at her feet, upon a stolen ship, with the harsh wind cutting about her, rain now falling, misting her eyes, salt crusting on her lips, Nym was okay with the risk of death if only she could hold and capture this feeling forever. After all, this wouldn't be the first time she had died, would it?

And if it was her fate to die here, that night, free for once, unbound and touched with madness, Nymphaea knew there were worse ways to die. In the end, if she fell, she would join those she had given to the water, veil herself in kelp and coral, a crown of urchins, and rest in gloomed peace. If she were to ride this storm, break through the rising tides and breach the west, then victory, true victory, _freedom_, was hers to take, and she would rise harder, stronger. That was the price of the sea, of iron and salt, of freedom and choice, and Nymphaea was willing to pay.

"Live or die this night, I live or die free."

By the time anybody noticed a ship was heading out of the dock, right into the rolling mouth of fog and cloud trundling in from the rushing storm, it was too late to stop it. Lightning flashed the skies a cold blue, the lonely silhouette of a swaying galleon cresting over raging waves the last sight anybody saw before the harbour became too dangerous to stay on.

* * *

**How do we like it so far? **

I'm still trying to work this fic out as I go, chapter by chapter, which is actually quite new to me as normally I plan the whole thing out, roughly, and then work from that. But this thing has just sort of taken on a life of its own lol. That might mean things feel a bit choppy, but I'm really trying to keep it smooth and fluid, but I kind of like the freedom of just sitting down and typing out whatever comes and I think this method will fit this sort of fic perfectly. Nevertheless, this is the end of the prologue, and so we move into chapter one, and I hope all of you are enjoying it so far!

**Some Questions Answered:**

**Who is Nym's father?**

I've decided to keep this a little bit concealed for the moment, and for a bit longer, but I have left little hints in this chapter, quite a few, so no doubt many will guess, (Although I've added a red herring too ;)) exactly which Greyjoy it is, but I kind of like the mystery of it at the moment, if that makes sense? It emphasises Nymphaea's point of view because, well, the reader along with the Nym doesn't know the answer, and that establishes a sort of kinship between the protagonist and reader. Of course it will be revealed soon, but I liked the layer of mystery.

**What is Nym's pairing in this?**

As I said, I'm really just working on this chapter by chapter with a very, very, can't stress that very enough, loose idea on where I want this fic to go. I also don't want the main focus to be romance, this is a story, primarily, about finding ones self and what that means. That being said, romance will come into it, and it will play its part. However, I really am refusing to touch many of the characters who have been done repeatedly, like Robb or Jon or Jaime, because I want something fresh and new. Nothing against those characters, I love them to pieces, but there are plenty of brilliant fics with them paired with Fem!Harry already, and let's face it, I can't compete with some of those wonderful pieces lol. So, I'm looking more towards lesser known characters that I can explore too. In full honesty, I was thinking, when I read this question, of Aurane Waters or Gerold Dayne. However, I'm still debating, and if you guys have any idea's, let me know, I love hearing from you all.

**I have my last exam coming up**, so I don't know when I'll be able to sit down and write more, and I'm only writing this chapter by chapter, so when inspiration for it is high, but hopefully, it should be sometime Sunday or next week, after Tuesday and the dreaded exam.

Thank you for all the wonderful reviews! I've loved all your words, advice, and questions! And to those who followed and favourited, I hope you are enjoying this so far! If you can, drop a review in that little box there and let me know your thoughts.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter I: The Silence.**

**Asha Greyjoy.**

The ship came silently, like a muted spectre lurching from the dying storm battering Pyke. Pyke itself, the seat of House Greyjoy, was a straggly mass of castles left standing on three barren islands and a dozen small stacks of rock, surrounded by the turbid tempest waters of the Iron Islands. Cut from the same grey-black stone of its coevals, the keeps and towers, connected by swaying rope bridges, blended into the achromatic hue of its watery home. Over the thousands of years since the castle was built, it had become over run by green lichen clinging to cliff and stone.

The Gate house was reposed on the mainland, just before the crags of Pyke's castle, only separated from the Great Keep by the high bridge. The walls of Pyke ran around in a crescent moon, from cliff to cliff, the only entry further in from the gatehouse fortified by a monolithic iron portcullis. The walls were dotted with three towers on either side, the southernmost tower new, crafted from a paler grey stone after the old southern tower had been destroyed during Greyjoy's rebellion, when King Robert Baratheon had breached the wall.

The Great Keep was massive, capped on the largest islet. The mainland of Pyke sloped towards it by the great stone bridge, it too covered in lichen. Beside it, further out to sea, stood the Bloody Keep, so named because of its sordid past, when the sons of the river king were slaughtered within its depths and their pieces, so many pieces, were shipped back to their father on the greenland. It was connected to the Great Keep by a covered stone walkway. The Bloody Keep was one of the largest sections of the castle after the Great Keep, where Balon made his chambers, laying on its own island, better furnished, with high gloomy ceilings. Within those slanting towers stood the long, smoky Great Hall, housing the Seastone Chair.

The Kitchen keep was next, it too sitting on its own islet. It was a squat little tower, fat and stout, slanting to the left. Fish stews, black bread, spiceless goat and onion pie, along with barrels of ale and mead were commonly being carted over its rope bridge by flustered thralls and kitchen servants.

The Sea Tower rose from the outermost stack, sheer and crooked, circular and lofty. The base of the lank tower was crusted white from centuries of salt spray, the upper stories moss green with lichen, and its head black with soot from the night fires guards would light. It took three bridges from the Kitchen Keep to make the journey to the Sea Tower, the last nothing but knotted roped, sodden. Its door was mouldy grey with rusted iron studs. Twisting stairs led to the damp and drafty solar of Lord Greyjoy, only warmed by the sparse lit bronze braziers.

It was in this moist and airy solar that Asha Greyjoy, daughter of The Lord Reaper of Pyke, Balon Greyjoy, captain of the Black Wind, sat at the long table, downing a tankard of honeyed mead. Her father Balon sat at the head of the table, finishing off his pot of peppercrab stew. Her father had always been lean, but now he was gaunt with a hard face and even harder black eyes. His hair was a curtain of slate, reaching the small of his back, streaked with white salt from age. As was regular for her father, he was dressed in his sombre seal skins, nearly merging into the arid grey of his surroundings.

On his left sat her uncle, Victarion, nursing his own drink. Asha's uncle was a large man, the largest she had ever seen, powerful too, with a bull's broad chest and a boys flat stomach. His hair was shorter than his older brothers, clipped at the shoulder and held back with a leather throng, as black as a raven's wing and flecked with silver at his temples. The Lord Captain was lacking his normally heavy iron chain mail, his notorious lobstered plate and kraken helm, only dressed in his boiled black leathers that night. Yet, even relaxing, he kept his longsword strapped to his waist, next to his dirk, with an axe balancing at his hip.

Over by the arching, narrow windows was Asha's other uncle, the youngest of all surviving brothers, Aeron Greyjoy, better known as Damphair. He was a tall and thin man, with fierce black eyes and a beak of a nose. As usual, he was garbed in rough spun wool robes dyed in green, grey and blues, mottled and evocative of the Drowned God. His face was sour that night, acidic as he peered bottomlessly out of the window and into the fading light of the storm. His hair was long, past his bladed waist, inky as it was weaved with seaweed. At his own hip stood no axe, nor sword or dirk, but a waterskin filled with seawater, which Asha had witnessed him use to bless those around him.

Aeron was once an amiable man, fond of songs, ale and women. Asha remembered that much. A whole world apart from this dour, humourless being he was now. He used to ride horses to and from Harlow, juggling, singing and drinking his way to Ten Towers and back. He was her favourite uncle, once upon a time, chasing her across the high bridge, teaching her how to throw an axe, how to swim, how to dance. Of course, all good things came to an end, and her once cheerful uncle did too.

The rebellion, to Asha, was a far off memory, almost hazy, like a dream. She had been a child, nothing but ten-and-one, but the loses they had faced, her family, had forever changed each and everyone of them, her uncle Aeron the most, and it was those changes after their defeat that sat poignantly putrid on her tongue. Rodrik and Maron, her two eldest brothers, were the first of many loses. Theon, her younger brother, had quickly followed, being taken as hostage by the Starks to ensure her fathers continued compliance to the stag's crown. Lily, Aeron's rockwife, had fell between the two.

Asha was never sure, not quite, if it was Aeron's defeat and drowning, during the battle of Fair Isle, having been lost at sea for months before he washed up on shore, unharmed and hearty, or the lose of Lily on the very same defeat that had turned him to a pious man, a fanatic most would say, but when he wrangled himself up from those pebbles and shells, laurelled in seaweed, he had never been the same.

Perhaps it was because, from the memories of her that Asha had, of the thickening of Lily's stomach when she had been lost, plumping out, fat with growing child. To lose a rockwife _and_ unborn child was never an easy blow. Contrary to what greenlanders liked to believe, Greyjoys cared greatly for the sea, more for a good fight, and the most for their family.

What was it they were going to call the babe again? Ah, yes. Nymphaea for a girl and Nymphon for a boy. Sometimes Asha wondered what they would look like, how they would act, if they would have took to the sea as fast as any other Greyjoy, but she, more often than not, pushed those thoughts away swiftly.

_What is dead my never die. _

Or perhaps Aeron had transformed before that loss. Asha remembered once, upon the many misadventures of her youth, overhearing her own father and Aeron arguing in hushed, clipped tones. Aeron had never been a violent fellow. Oh, he fought as good as the rest of them before he became the holy man he was today, but he was never out right vicious unlike some of Asha's uncles, unlike her own father some nights. Yet, that night, pinning Balon to the wall, half drunk, dirk out and gleaming in the brazier fire, snarling a demand to know where Euron was, Asha's last surviving uncle, his own brother, Aeron was inherently barbarous and brutal, more terrifying than anything else Asha had seen before and since.

Asha hadn't picked up much before her father had spotted her, her uncle too, and she was promptly ushered back to her room stiffly and ordered to sleep by her haggard and tear struck mother. She remembered Balon's reply,_ no brother of mine will commit kinslaying under my house!_ And she remembered clearly, almost too clearly, Aeron's desperate slurred words, broken bits of glass, jumbled by ale and rage, just snippets of feelings. _Euron… Milk… Poppy… took… My wife… My wife!… My right…_

After that night, Lily had grown fat, ripened, and now, as a grown woman herself, Asha thought she knew what it all meant, the implications of such a dank memory, but, well, after Lily's death at sea, her disappearance, no one ever spoke about her again. It was like her name was cursed. Still, the child would have likely been Aeron's, for they, he and Lily, had been married and overtly blissful, their bed in frequent use, and Asha, rightly, didn't know exactly what that unsavoury memory meant.

Aeron had never denounced Lily, not once, not even after that night that Asha didn't fully know of, could not grasp, and had not remarried since, unlike her uncle Victarion who had gone through three saltwives. Neither had Aeron denounced the child, from the little that Asha recalled, he had seemed to become more protective, more sure, as he proclaimed to anyone who would listen that it was his babe and his wife who had been lost to waves and salt. But Asha remembered. She remembered it _all. _

Asha didn't know where Lily had came from, perhaps some greenlander place rich with flowers and fucking fancy poetry, she had been too young to care. Asha did remember Lily though, for she had been soft and gentle, even her name was so fucking soft, so unlike an Ironborn, when she first appeared, washed up on their own shores looking like a half drowned vermilion snapper. Asha's grandfather had taken pity, or perhaps had taken ambition once he witnessed what the strange woman could do with just words, thought and a spindly stick, when Lily had helped cure an illness spreading through the Iron Islands like wildfire. Quellon took her in, allowed to her stay in the Bloody Keep, and a year later, Asha had been robed and presented at her uncle Aeron and Lily's wedding.

As a child, Asha had not paid much attention to the small goings on, had not saw the need to, most happy to just ride the wave and enjoy the highs as most children did. Now, however, she wished she had paid more attention. Those had been their glory years, full of laughter, drink, raiding and riches. Yet, ambition bred plans, and plans bred darker deeds. All too soon, Quellon, Asha's grandfather, had rebelled against Robert Baratheon, seeking to recarve the kingdom of the Iron Islands under the Grey King once more, pulling her own father and his brothers into the fight.

Despite Lily's initial protests against war, even after the three years she had spent with them, she always held that little bloom of greenlander softness, she too soon joined the fray of liberating their people from a crown that could not, and would not, try and understand them or their ways. Those who looked down on their very birth, who thought them nothing but vermin, and yet stripped them of their iron, resources and what little wealth they had.

Then they had the audacity to order them not to raid when they had no other fucking choice! What right did they have? Did the fat stag order the Starks to quit praying to their trees? Did he order the Tyrells to burn their gardens? Did the Tully bitch have to break down her sept? Oh, those greenlanders sure did like to forget that it was they, the Ironborn, just as with the Starks, who were here from the first men. They were here first, and they would be here, proud and tall, last.

And by the Drowned god himself, for a short time, they had showed how deep and strong their roots were. They had been winning! But then her older brothers had been slain by that godless cuck Stannis Baratheon, Lily had been pulled from the fight, due to her being with child, her abilities, what she called _magic, _had been hampered by her state and was not working as it should, Aeron had been transporting her back to Pyke to seek safety, and they both had fallen from a surprise strike. With her brothers, Aeron and Lily out, Victarion could not hold the line, not for long, and soon the Baratheon, Stark and Lannister forces had breached their sea brocade around Lannisport, assaulted their home, took her other brother, now heir to Pyke, only eight seasons old, and left their family in tatters for the dare of bidding for freedom.

Now, ten-and-six years later, at seven-and-twenty seasons old, Asha felt as if the Greyjoys, and in fact, the whole of the Iron Islands, had not been able to pick themselves up from the ruins the rebellion had wrought about their heads. Much like the storm settling outside, the damage, like thunder, could still be heard in the air. Of course, maybe Asha's trip down the rugged path of reminiscence was because, since the failed rebellion, their family had not been kept in the same room for more than a few turns of a helm.

Then again, her two brothers were dead, Theon was a ward in Winterfell, a hostage in all but name, playing son to the wolf Lord, Lily too, and her unborn child, had returned to the Drowned God's watery halls, and uncle Euron… Well, his remiss of the gathering was the only positive outcome. Still, it remained true that it had been a long while, too long in Asha's opinion, since her uncles and herself had gathered in one keep for any period of time. Yet again, she had the storm to thank for such a result.

The storm had hit them swift and punishingly, sweeping in from the east, a roaring beast of thunder and lightning. Victarion had barely managed to dock in Lordsport, returning from a raid of the Reach's trade routes, before the true anger of the storm was felt. Even Aeron, who in recent years had taken to camping out on the shores, rock pools and beaches, had come to seek shelter in her fathers halls. And so, they had taken to Balon's solar to refill on drink and food, her men and Victarion's crew taking rest in the Bloody Keep, to wait out the worst storm to crash down upon them in many a year. Nineteen exactly, according to Aeron, who seemed almost bewitched by the storm.

Nevertheless, after a spin or two of catching up on her raid across White Harbour, cornering vessels coming in from Essos, and Victarion's in the Reach's waters, they had fallen to silence as they finished their dinner. Oddly enough, it was Aeron who broke the silence, still staring out of that slit of a window.

"They must be brave to challenge the Drowned God so."

Asha used the back of her hand to roughly slop away the dregs of mead dribbling down her chin.

"Who nuncle?"

Aeron's head tilted just so, a fraction, out into the blistering waters.

"Those sailing that ship."

Asha scoffed, thinking he was in jest, before no more came from him. She slammed her tankard down on the table, mead spilling onto wood. The screech of her chair against damp stone rattled the air as she sauntered to a stand next to her tall uncle, shoulder to shoulder, or, well, shoulder to bottom ribcage, to gander out at the night sea. It was hard to spot in the dark, the Sea Tower fire only lighting so much, and the storm concealing even further, but, with a small flash of lightning followed by the bellow of angry thunder, Asha caught a glimpse of a bobbing silhouette.

It was definitely no longship, Asha could tell you that straight away. Neither was it a trading vessel, not like the ones normally docking into Lordsport. Nor was it of Westorosi design, those greenlanders preferred gilded monstrosities that chugged not glided. It was something else, three masted she thought from the quick flash, big but strong, and cutting, almost graceful even sailing in the atrocious storm. However, she only caught a flash, and much more than that she could not tell.

"What are they doing sailing so close to Pyke? The closest safe anchorage is in Lordsport."

From this close, Asha could feel Aeron hum, a long drawn out husky hymn, profound and nigh baleful.

"The bravery and foolery of youth, I fear, has given them too much courage. If they are not careful, they will beach against Pyke's many cliffs."

Asha stood watching as another flash of lightning flared the sky to white. The ship was closer now, bowsprit aimed right at them.

"If they are not careful, nuncle, they will beach against this very tower and take a part of the Sea Tower with them into their watery grave. They are not changing their course."

The clank of a spoon being dashed into a bowl made Asha jump. She heard Victarion snigger. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw her father pushing his plate away, waving a hand for the hunched thrall, who had been patiently waiting by his side, to take his meal back to the kitchens to do with as servants do. Taking a swig of his own mead, her father addressed her with a thin, tight mouth, his rolling, rough Ironborn brogue sinewy.

"How far?"

Darting her gaze back to the window, Asha tried to picture where she had last seen the ship, frowning.

"A few leagues out, enough time for a diversion if someone was to meet them on the open sea."

Victarion huffed as he pulled away from the table, but he did not come over to the window. Instead, he marched over to the closest brazier and reached his hands out, warming them by the crackling fire. His voice was almost as spiteful as those spluttering flames.

"It is likely some foolish greenlander trader, new to the sea and come to ply their trade. Leave them to crash, I say. It will set an example to not take the Sunset sea as jest."

Balon readily cut off his brother, as if he never even heard him.

"Are they flying a banner?"

And then Asha understood. The last thing they needed right now was some highborn noble, greenlander or not, getting wrecked upon their land. No doubt, by the seasons end, the greenlanders would find a way to place blame upon them, with some flippant conspiracy of a Greyjoy attack. Asha stood and watched, but as the next bout of lightning lit up the sky, as with the thunder and storm, it too was dying, weak and frail, nothing but a spark lighting up an undulating shadow.

"It is too dark to see, father."

Balon leant back in his ornate but tattered chair, finger tapping on worn armrest. Finally, with a firm nod, he addressed Asha for the last time.

"Take some men and head them off. I do not wish to spend the next week picking pieces of timber and flesh off our shores because of arrogance."

Victarion tutted, but kept close to the brazier. Her uncle was like that, often of his own mind, but never sturdy enough in it to argue his opinion against his brothers. A twiggy long hand clamped down upon her shoulder, as light as driftwood, as warm as corpse flesh.

"I will accompany you."

Asha frowned at Aeron, head cocking to the side, taken aback. Her uncle had not been on the sea for years, favouring to offer sermons and drownings on shore, where he was sure he could hear the Drowned God's voice clearest. But there was something there in those eyes, a ferocity, a fire, Asha had not seen since she was a child, as he swung her up into the air, smiling, as Lily tickled her feet and braided rock rush into her short hair, Aeron's arm wrapped around the red woman's shoulder. Asha's mouth opened, questions tickling the back of her teeth, but her father was waving his hand towards the solar door.

"Just be done with it."

Asha's mouth clamped shut as Aeron's hand slipped from her shoulder.

"As you wish, father."

* * *

**Chapter I: The Silence Part II**

**Asha Greyjoy.**

Asha's boots hit the deck with a soggy clunk. Holding up a dim torch, the light mist of rain nearly dousing the hapless flame, she had to squint in the darkness to see further than three hands in front of her face. Asha's small band of men flooded over the deck railing, clutching their own torches and axes, wearily eyeing the strange, so very fucking strange, ship around them. Aeron was the last to scale the ships broadside, his bare feet plodding on the sodden deck, as he slunk close to Asha's side to share the small light her torch gave them.

"Set anchor! Spread out and search!"

Asha ordered as her men, more cautiously than usual, took to her barked order like well trained ravens. Asha, really, could not blame them for the hesitancy. The storm was breaking, giving its last wrathful breathes, and the ride over to the careening ship had been easier than Asha had first thought it would be. Nevertheless, that was the only _easy_ thing about it. The ship itself was ample, a whole two decks higher than the small ship she and a few men, along with her nuncle, had departed on to sail to its side, a war ship if Asha had ever saw one, and scaling the larger ship had proven to be a task all on its own. Even so, the worst, Asha thought, was the inescapable silence that encapsulated the brute of timber and gold. There was no frantic shouts of the crew, no captain orders yelled over rushing wind, no running footsteps or oars being dragged through choppy waves, just silence.

_Silence. _

Asha would not lie, Greyjoys were shit at it anyway, but her heart had leapt into her throat when they had settled close enough to the curious ships side. Though it sailed no flax of black, nor had a dark crimson hall, the timber of the ship was dark but shaded with lighter wood, golden in the firelight, and it wasn't lean enough or single masted to be The Silence, on first glance, hearing such eerie derelict of sound, Asha had thought it was her uncle, Euron, who was pulling into dock. Yet, just to make sure, Asha bent down, taking her torch with her, and looked at the deck itself. Black, not red to hide the blood.

Slowly edging about the main deck, that ominous feeling would not relinquish its hold of her spine. The rat lines were empty. The crows nests abandoned. The deck was clean and clear. There was no one here. Even if this ship had set sail from the closest Westerosi ports, Banefort or Seagard, they would have had to sail right through the eye of the storm. No ship, in a storm such as this, could have survived that journey. Perhaps the crew had felt the same, trapped by wind and hail, and had abandoned the beauty to the watery halls of the Drowned God. A grand tribute for sure. Then again, as Asha moved towards the quarter deck, where the helm would lay, she passed the three stacked longboats strapped to its side.

_No one had fled._ Then where were the bodies? This beast would take, if Asha had to luck a guess, at least sixty men to man. The sails and rigging were more intricate than Asha had ever seen, the sheer size of the ship, the storm itself, no less than sixty, she was sure of it. The creak of the stairs leading to the quarter deck rang out over the splash of tide on hull and misty rain. No. To man such a ship, in a storm such as this, was a feat of daring even Asha felt too humble to attempt. And Asha was not known to be anything remotely modest.

Coming to the helm, where the captain's wheel stood proudly, obscured by night, Asha caught the first and only hint of life. Crumbled against the helm wheel, one arm twisted through the struts and spokes, was a sprawled figure. Asha's arm shot out, over to Aeron, for him to take the torch, which he promptly did as Asha marched towards the hunched figure. Bending down on her haunches, she took as much note as she could.

It was too dark to get specifics, there were no stars or moonlight that night, and Aeron stood off by the distance, close enough for Asha to gain hints from the flickering torch, no colours or details, just mass and outlines, not much else. She doubted he had even spotted the figure, too long on land to have a night eye for the sea any more. The figure was lanky, long limbed and lithe, and unconscious. It was sagging by its arm, head lolling on chest, and around their tangled arm was rope, the thick kind, fastening it to helm. They were smart, whoever this was, to tie themselves to the ship wheel, so the rocky tides could not send them flying across deck, perhaps even overboard, but bold too, implausibly reckless. By their feet was a small barrel, lidded.

"I think I've found the captain!"

Asha yelled over to Aeron as her hand delved for her belt, plucking out a knife. Twisting it free, she set about cutting the rope from the persons arm, the long figure nearly falling completely to the deck as the last knot was cut loose. Asha managed to grab the figure just in time. Torso cradled to her own chest, lax head drooping on her shoulder, it was only then that Asha found it not to be just any person, but a woman. She felt frigid, as cold as the sea itself, drenched and soaked. Yet, there was a blossom of warmth where her shadowed face met Asha's shoulder. Asha's hand slicked up, felt the side of the face, over forehead where the warmth was coming from, and her fingers came away hot, wet and thick.

_Blood. _

The woman had likely smashed her face into the helm when the ship rolled in the storm, the rope around her wrist the only reason she was not at the bottom of the sea currently. It was also likely why the ship had not corrected its course upon seeing the Salt Towers fire. Almost blindly, Asha tried to heave her up to a stand, but the woman was tall, her feet dragging across the decks floorboards. By the Drowned God, the woman must have been at least six foot upright and awake, almost as tall as her uncles, as struck by madness too if she was manning this ship, through this storm, by herself. Groaning, Asha took a step backwards, towards Aeron and the light, when the woman's head jerked weakly.

"Sargon… Bucket… The bucket..."

The voice was deep, deeper than Asha had thought it would be, stuck somewhere between husky delirium and biting command, with a lilt to it that Asha could not recognize, even if it was as brash as the Northern and Iron tongue.

"Nuncle, grab the bucket!"

Aeron dashed passed then, nimble and swift, and with the flair of light, Asha caught the tones of sunset over Saltcliffe, rust on iron and blood dripping from an axehead. The light was gone before she could catch much more. From over her shoulder, to the men down on the main deck, Asha shouted.

"Is the ship anchored?!"

A disembodied voice answered back from the gloom.

"Aye Captain!"

The woman's head was sagging again, awareness fleeing her. This close to Pyke's castle, the cliffs should offer enough protection for the ship to wait out the storm on sea, yet far enough out from the dangerous crags that would wreck it on their shores.

"Good, let's move out!"

Asha managed, barely, to drag the body of the woman down the quarter decks stairs. One of her men, A Botley boy if she guessed right from his jittery shadow, came to help her by lifting the long legs of the woman so they could cart her over the side with them. And wrangle her, their men, and the bucket over the deck and back to Asha's ship they did. As Aeron brought up the rear, once more, Asha slipped the body onto the deck of her ship, laying her spread on her back. Her men took their places, plucking up oars and rigging, eager to get away from the strange ship and back to land, and pulled away from the swaying beast behind them. Asha glanced to her uncle.

"What is in the bucket?"

Aeron, with a torch in one hand and the large bucket clutched in the other, glanced down to it. His words did nothing to settle her.

"I do not know, but it is… Squirming."

Asha held her hand out as Aeron handed her the torch, and back safely on her own ship, away from that ominous feeling, Asha tardily stepped towards the prone form and dared to take a glance at their newest visitor. Curving down, Asha pressed the fire close to the woman's face and finally got a good look at her. She was immediately hit with memories, ghosts and dead family.

Her skin was pale, half her face, the left, covered in ruddy blood from the shallow slash in her hairline, nearly shell white, with taupe freckles dusted handsomely across the map of her keen face. Her hair was the wink of sunset and rust Asha had seen earlier, short, cropped at shoulder, longer than her own, but wild in its rushing torrent of curls. Her nose was thin, noble sloping, set beneath two thick high arching brows, and her mouth was full, if tinged blue from the seawater and cold, or perhaps the loss of blood. That was Lily there, Asha knew. The same freckles, the same skin, the same nose and mouth, all Lily, right down to the thick swoop of burnt copper lashes against cheekbone.

But it was wrong too. The jaw was too square, cut harsh, proud, like Asha's own who she had inherited from her father and his brothers, and their father, and their fathers before them. Her cheekbones were a shade too sharp, her eyes too sleek, even shut, and laying between the lines of skin, muscle and tendon was a broad sort of strength, stony and strong, not Lily's narrow fragility, that only the Ironborn were known for.

"Lily?"

Aeron whispered as he tumbled forward like a crest of a wave, bucket dropping at his feet with a blaring thump, falling beside Asha on his knees. Asha had only heard him as awed as he was now when he was praying to the Drowned God in his hushed whispers. The girl's, for she was a girl, not woman, barely ten-and-six Asha would say, eyes shot open. Asha had forgotten, as time often made people do, how bright Lily's eyes had been, the glowing summer grass of them, wildfire trapped in glass, until the girls right eye settled on her with a snap. Asha, belatedly, had also forgotten Euron's own eye, normally covered by eyepatch, black with menace, pitched and wide, darker than any sea or stone or dragonglass, until she saw nestled, in the dip of the left of the girls face, surrounded by blood, it once again staring back at her.

_She had Euron's Crows eye. _

And then, in the split second from eyes cracking open to find Asha hovering above her, the girl was swinging and pain ruptured from Asha's temple like an exploding star.

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**What do we think so far?**

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**Some notes on this chapter:**

**My own little fancast of the Greyjoys (completely ignore if you picture your own, this is just a bit of fun): **

Balon: Mads Mikkelsen.

Victarion: Clive Standon. (Long hair)

Aeron: Zach Mcgowan. (Black hair)

Euron: Ben Barnes.

Asha: Krysten Ritter. (Cropped hair)

Theon: Gaspard Ulliel.

Lily: Rebecca Ferguson. (Red hair)

Nymphaea: Daria Milky.

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Next update should be around Wednesday/Thursday next week as my final exam is on Tuesday and I'm going to spend this weekend cramming lol. I was going to publish this Sunday, but as I've already got it ready to go, I know if I don't publish it, I'll start procrastinating on the next chapter and never start it. So, here it is, two days early. I hope you enjoyed it.

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**A huge thank you to everyone! **Silent readers, followers, favourite-ers, reviewers, if I could, I would give you all a hug, but I'm afraid my thanks will have to do.

_**As always, please drop a review if you have a moment, they keep the muses chattering.**_


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